Breathe

It started very innocently the night you were born. I stayed up all night watching you sleep, afraid that if I looked away for a single minute, you would simply cease to be. Then, when we brought you home, I couldn't pass by the bassinet on my way to bed without stopping to make sure the swaddling wasn't too close to your face. During those first four months, I grew accustomed to falling asleep to the tune of your snorts and snuffs.

It was strange when we finally moved you into the nursery. Only two doors away, and yet the distance seemed so much further. I was happy to reclaim my bedroom, yet unsure of how to deal with the separation. So each night, before I went to bed, I would sneak into your room to reassure myself that all was well. Desperate not to wake you, I would navigate the creaky floorboards with my heart in my throat. Not breathing. Afraid to sneeze. Sure you would hear the thump in my breast and the blood rushing through my veins. I'd crouch down beside the crib like some crazy game of peek-a-boo and listen to you. Breathe in. Breathe out. Then I could breathe again, and move to the door. Sometimes you'd sigh, and I'd freeze. Listen. Breathe in. Breath out. And I would creep quietly out the door.

Since then, I've stretched that invisible cord between us. I can go away for a day, or a night, and you are fine without me. But it wasn't until this weekend, when you jumped into Nana's car with a cheerful wave and nary a backwards glance, that it hit me how far you've come since those early days. I thought I would be happy to have the house to myself, time to myself, to do what I want, when I want. And to be honest, I was. I would be again. But this time I would know what I was missing.

The house would be blissfully quiet at last. But I would miss your exuberant renditions of Five Little Ducks and Mister Golden Sun. And the seventeenth time you asked: "Whaddya doin'?". And the twentieth time you asked: "Where Daddy is?" And your laughter. And your dinosaur growls.

I would be completely unencumbered with baby or gear. But I would miss your unprompted hugs when I pretend to be sad. And the weight of your head in the crook of my neck when you tire. And the legs wrapped tightly around my waist. And the weight of your body in my arms as you give yourself over to sleep.

I could make as much noise as I want without fear of waking you. But I would miss the unconscious avoidance of the creaky floorboard outside your bedroom door. And the knowledge that you're sleeping peacefully behind that closed door. And your sweet breath, in and out.

What I would be missing is you. I will stop by your room tonight before I go to bed, and listen to you. Breathe in. Breathe out. Because when you breath, the house breathes with you. And so do I.